


Flash Point

by kashinoha



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Contracts, Crane Mother!Gao, Fisk is protective of his property, Fisk loses his shit, Vanessa is a saint, loose OT3, not quite human!Wesley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-30 17:05:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3944746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kashinoha/pseuds/kashinoha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"After all,” Wesley smirks, “you are rather protective of your property.” </p><p>Or, Wesley interrupts what was supposed to be an uninterrupted dinner. </p><p>All characters © Marvel, Netflix</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flash Point

**Author's Note:**

> A flash point in chemistry or paints is the temperature at which a coating or solvent will ignite.
> 
> I really wanted to write something with Wesley, but struggled since Wesley is more or less a total sociopath. So I tried something a little different. Takes place during Nelson vs. Murdock, in which Gao and Leland decide to beat up Wesley first before going after Vanessa. Hope you enjoy!

**Flash Point**

 

 

The moon rises mostly full over a Manhattan evening, a sick, faded tilleul-yellow that makes Wesley think of things like benzene and cordite as he approaches one of the many nameless buildings along the piers of Hell’s Kitchen. He can smell the wetness of the Hudson nearby, combined with the moist smell of geese shit, and he wrinkles his nose.

Gao smiles as Wesley lets himself in and coils her ankles together. She does not shiver as the winds ravage her thin cotton shirt.

“I once read a story about a hopping mouse that befriended a kangaroo,” she says, in Mandarin. “The hopping mouse would get green plants for the kangaroo and in return, the kangaroo would let the hopping mouse ride around in her pouch.”

Wesley arches an eyebrow. Gao’s stories always have a point to them, even if they tend to be long-winded and slightly disturbing.

“After many years, the kangaroo found that she no longer knew how to get food by herself. The hopping mouse could not hop as fast as he used to because he had grown comfortable being carried by the kangaroo,” Gao continues. “One day, the hopping mouse and the kangaroo got separated. The kangaroo became thin and weak, and eventually starved. As for the hopping mouse, he was soon devoured by a hawk he could not outrun.”

This one is easy. “I appreciate your warnings against co-dependence,” says Wesley. “May I ask to whom you are referring in your allegory?”

Gao eyes him over her cane. “Your color is not good.”

Another breeze sweeps through the abandoned pier, making the sweat along Wesley’s brow and upper lip tingle. He never used to sweat, before.

“A result, I think, of your employer’s recent turmoil,” says Gao, her smile widening as Wesley’s shrinks considerably. Of course, of course she knows. Gao laughs, and it is a good-natured, pleasant sound. Bells in the wind. There are few people Wesley knows who sound normal when they are laughing, himself included. Those are the ones you have to watch out for.

Gao wipes the corner of her eye. “Don’t be so surprised, child. I’ve been around for quite a while. How many contracted humans do you think I’ve seen in my days?” she asks.

After a minute, Wesley concedes a small, resigned smile and asks, “So am I the kangaroo or the hopping mouse?”

“It does not matter,” Gao says. “When the contractor becomes conflicted, the contractee suffers. Both are disturbed.”

“Then you know I cannot be hurt, or subject to…unpleasantries,” Wesley says.

“Not by a human, no,” replies Gao, looking thoughtful. She rises from the stool she is perched on, fabric of her skirt billowing like teaweed in rippled water. “You have shown me nothing but respect, child, so know that I mean nothing personal. I will not kill you.”

Wesley brings a hand up to adjust his glasses and ends up removing them altogether, which is something that he has only ever done in the presence of Fisk. His fingers feel sticky and slow, but he lets the side of his mouth curl up because it’s always about how you _look_ when you face the open jaws of the night.

“I know you have expressed concerns about my employer’s judgement as of late, but if this is your plan to teach him a lesson I assure you that it won’t work,” he tells her, smirking.

Gao closes her eyes. “In the wake of personal attachment, Wilson has lost sight of his goals,” she says.

“I’m afraid I have to disagree with you, Madam,” argues Wesley. He feels the lightness of his jacket, inner pocket empty because he never carries a gun. Never needs to.

Gao opens her eyes, and they look different, somehow. Bigger. “Grounding him is something that cannot be taught,” she replies, in English, “so he must be shown.”

It all happens very fast after that.

 

 

 

No one interrupts Wilson Fisk’s dinners. It is on the list of “things you do not do if you value your head on your shoulders,” and here that is meant in the most literal sense. Tonight, one of Beethoven’s piano sonatas is filling the room and the wine is a mouthwatering 1957 Syrah from Dureza. They have just moved on from the appetizers and his fork is in Vanessa’s mouth when Fisk hears it.

_“Sir.”_

Vanessa, who is running a tongue over the prongs, freezes. Not because she dislikes blood, but because of who it covers. Her artist’s mind takes a moment to appreciate the different shades of red _(russet, erythraean, kermes, crimson, aubergine)_ and how they reflect the chandelier light before Fisk crashes into the table with a hasty attempt to rise.

Wesley mumbles something that sounds like an apology, but his voice is cracked and crumbling and Fisk is staring blankly at what Wesley knows are several broken bones. Deep, shining bruises. Multiple lacerations, most still metallic-fresh and dripping. Fisk’s throat works as he struggles for words, so Vanessa takes the opportunity to ask what happened.

“A complication,” manages Wesley, through split lips. Fisk makes a small choking sound. Vanessa touches his elbow lightly, and that seems to bring Fisk back.

“Who did this?” Fisk asks quietly. Wesley coughs, and it _hurts._

“I…am not at liberty to say,” He replies, “but someone with your…best interests at heart.”

Fisk is still gaping at Wesley as if he has grown a second head. Vanessa calls the maître d over and gently tells him to summon one of Fisk’s EMTs. The man nods, looking like he has made several messes in his pants already, and scurries away. Vanessa gives Wesley a sympathetic look. There is not much else you can offer someone who has been beaten this way to Sunday and back.

“A doctor should be here shortly,” she assures Wesley, who is eyeing with disgust the undoubtedly expensive carpet that he’s getting blood on. “Come, sit,” says Vanessa, and guides him to one of the nearby tables. Wordlessly, Fisk hands her a clean napkin which Vanessa dips in water and begins patting at the dried blood smearing Wesley’s face. For a while, there is only Beethoven in the distance as the moon swells like a tumorous boil overhead.

Two of Fisk’s medics from Mount Sinai arrive, rattling off numbers and anatomical terms that Fisk is only half listening to. Wesley does not scream, but his eyes roll back in his head and he bites his lower lip against a groan when they set his collarbone and two others in his arm. The medics stitch and bandage the deeper cuts, which takes almost an hour. By the time they are done, one of Wesley’s eyes has swollen a gloomy plum and Fisk has said fewer than five words, all of which are not good signs at all.

Only seconds after the medics leave, Fisk smashes his hand into one of the dining tables so hard it splinters and cracks down the middle. Unfortunate silverware and plates tinkle to the floor and Wesley, half-conscious by this point, at least has the decency to wince.

Vanessa, however, does not even flinch. “Wilson,” she murmurs, wrapping his arm around her own. “Wesley will be fine. He will heal.”

Fisk’s eyes, dark and pained, bore into her own. “He shouldn’t have to,” he says. Stroking Vanessa’s hair, he whispers, “There is something I want to show you.” Fisk walks over to Wesley, and after a moment of deliberation does something odd; he leans down and places a kiss over Wesley’s black eye.

When Fisk pulls away Vanessa sees that the bruising over Wesley’s eye, shining and purple-black a second ago, has vanished.

“Francis will drive you home,” Fisk tells Wesley. “After you rest and recover, I want you to tell me everything.”

“Yes, Sir,” sighs Wesley, eyes closed. There is something of a smile on his face. Vanessa, still staring at Wesley’s eye, thinks that he, somehow, already looks better. With the help of the maître d, Wesley staggers out of the restaurant and into the night.

Fisk turns to Vanessa, lines creasing the soft skin of his forehead. “There is…something about Wesley I think you should know,” he says.

 

 

 

“If you remember what happened in this city three years ago, it’s not so difficult to believe that there are things that exist outside this world,” Fisk begins. They are in his penthouse, clad in bathrobes of navy suede, and Fisk is waiting for his cup of oolong tea to cool.

“I told you that Wesley is a dear friend,” he continues, “but in truth, he is even more. He is under my contract.”

Vanessa props her chin under one palm, says, “I take it you don’t mean paper.”

“He is bound to me.”

“Like Faust and Mephistopheles?” asks Vanessa. She has seen enough in her time here to question what had once been a bleak, vanilla reality, and her lips pull up in genuine curiosity.

At this the corners of Fisk’s mouth also twitch. “In a way,” he replies. “But you can only form a contract if you’ve done… _things,_ as I have done.” Fisk stares into his cup as the steam curls around his fingers.

“I once asked Wesley what it was like, to—to be as he is.”

“And? What does he feel?” asks Vanessa, head inclined as she thinks suddenly of murder and rime-coated tears and rusty smoke. It stirs her.

“He told me his heart beats like anyone else’s, but in all the wrong places,” Fisk tells her, a muscle in his jaw working because Vanessa should not be so understanding.

“Wesley is older than I am,” he says, after a moment. “Does that disturb you?”

“No,” says Vanessa, and he can see she is telling the truth.

“Someone subjected to a contract is free from age, harm, or death until the terms of our…agreement are met,” Fisk tells her. “Wesley has unlimited access to anything he needs, but in return he has given up the ability to feel empathy and emotional connection. I understand it unsettles people.”

Vanessa frowns, but a small smile graces her lips. “When it comes to you, I have not seen that to be true,” she says.

“As the contractor, I am the exception. Wesley has given half of his…” here Fisk gestures, unable to find a word.

“His essence, maybe?” Vanessa supplies. “Or soul?”

“If you could call it that, I suppose, yes. He has given half his soul to me. Therefore his power comes directly from mine. If I waver in my conviction, he suffers physically. It,” Fisk pauses, “shocked me to see Wesley like that tonight.” He shakes his head in thought.

“Wesley can only be harmed by something…outside our laws,” continues Fisk, upper lip twitching over teeth. He looks away. “I know of such people, and the fact that Wesley wouldn’t tell me who did this means that it is somebody I work with.” He suddenly recalls a recent conversation with Gao, who questioned his resolve only days ago.

Vanessa tilts her head. “And if they are?”

“They have made the mistake of assuming that—“his fingers tighten around his cup—“that using Wesley to get to me was a good idea,” he says, scowling. When he speaks again, his voice is low and guttural. “No matter who it may be, I will find them and remind them that there are things in this world worse than inhumanity.”

Vanessa is silent for a moment. She reaches across the table, takes Fisk’s hand in her own; then asks the question that worries her the most.

“What happens when you’ve met the terms of your arrangement?”

 

 

 

Wesley would have been honored, if he was not currently feeling like a steaming pile of cow manure, that his employer had paid him a house visit. His apartment is just as he is; stone-washed grays and blues of a storm, impersonal, and easily forgettable. Exactly as he likes it.

Other things, however, are not so pleasant.

“I _dislike_ being in bed at such an hour,” says Wesley. The lines around his mouth betray the fact that he is unaccustomed to physical injury, and he's all the more cranky for it. There are shadows around his eyes and stubble prickling his jawline, yet it is certainly an improvement from the other night. What he remembers of it.

“I am glad that you’re doing better,” Fisk says, fidgeting with a pair of arrow-shaped cuff links. “I was…worried.”

Wesley smiles. “Of course I’m doing better,” he says. Which is mostly true. Cow manure is a step up from the walking dead. “To be honest, Sir, I was more worried about you.”

“Seeing you hurt was alarming,” Fisk replies. “It does not happen often.” He falls silent for a long while, enough for Wesley to close his eyes and drift off into thought before the sound of Fisk’s voice—grinding, like crushed glass over Velcro—brings him back.

“You’re always honest with me, Wesley. Tell me, who is responsible?”

Wesley keeps his eyes closed for another moment. The late morning sun, even through thick curtains, is harsh on his vision. He wonders if Fisk will break anything once he tells him, and dismisses the concern. Fisk generally pays for things he breaks, if he thinks they are worth fixing. Wesley knows this well.

“Gao,” he says finally.

Fisk looks troubled, but unsurprised. “What was she?”

Wesley shrugs. Since moving is still unpleasant he does it all in his face, which, considering him, is rather expressive. “I don’t know,” he replies. Fisk begins to pace the carpet surrounding Wesley’s bed.

“I don’t see why…” he exhales, fists clenching. “She knew this would upset me.”

“I don’t think you could hurt that woman even if you tried,” Wesley tells him. “She thought you were distracted by personal attachments, and that it was causing you to question your methods. As ah, odd as her logic was, she ultimately did this for the right reasons.”

“I don’t care,” Fisk says sharply. He’s stopped pacing. When it comes to Wilson Fisk, there are two things you never touch: his mother or Wesley. A recent addition to the list is Vanessa Marianna. Wesley almost feels bad for Gao.

“She did have a point,” says Wesley, “but ultimately, Gao was wrong. She mistook your connections as distractions when you were merely troubled by the man in the mask and his playdates with the Russians. In fact, what she did was actually beneficial to us, and my spectacular recovery can attest to that.” He chuckles once, and the slump in Fisk’s shoulders is visibly relieved.

“It seems your attachments to myself and Vanessa have strengthened your resolve. After all,” Wesley smirks, “you are rather protective of your property.”

“I do not think I can forgive Gao’s actions,” says Fisk, frowning, “but maybe I should thank her at the next opportunity.” He looks like he is about to say something more but decides against it, straightens his jacket, and flips the light switch off. “Sleep now,” he says.

Wesley looks mildly annoyed. “You know I don’t need to.”

Fisk walks over and rests a hand on Wesley’s shoulder. It is warm and gentle and placed in such a way that it avoids his broken collarbone.

“It’s never been about what you need, Wesley,” says Fisk, softly.

Wesley leans back and chuckles again. “Of course, Sir,” he says. He sees Fisk smile because yes, this is what they agreed upon. It has always been about Fisk. But deep down, Wesley knows—they both know—that on some level, Fisk needs him too.

Hm. Kangaroo and hopping mouse indeed.

 

End.

 


End file.
